Coffee God
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: John Munch finds out the hard way, someone has taken over his job of providing the squad with coffee...with nearly disasterous results. Can the 'new cop' take the heat? SVU  AU  COMPLETE


"Coffee God"

by Cardinal Robbins

Thanks to Therinliestheproblem at the MunchagogueReformed for sending me the idea and requesting this tale. (I usually don't get 'requests,' but her idea was too fun to pass by!) Thanks are also in order for LSMunch, who created a cool "Coffee God" avatar, which also helped me write this one. The usual disclaimer applies: SVU characters aren't mine, but Zelman is (until Wolf buys her). _This takes place 6 weeks after "November Rain," for anyone who wonders._

John Munch knew something was seriously amiss when he entered the bullpen. Someone secretly had their way with his coffeemaker, having savagely forced it to perk something very unlike the standard Folger's brew he provided for his captain and squad-mates. Upon his arrival, his sense of smell was assaulted by a traitor's blend of something no self-respecting member of the thin blue line would ever allow past their lips.

"What is this frilly, funky detritus I smell dripping into the carafe?" he asked, affronted. "Someone, probably one of those goons downstairs in Homicide, has perpetrated an offense upon that which we hold sacred. They have their _own_ coffeemaker." He stared, as dark liquid dripped languidly into the pot below, filling the bullpen with a distinctly Cinnabon scent. It was not the half-dozen cinnamon twirls left as a sacrifice to the Coffee God, unofficially known as Munch.

Captain Cragen had been standing with him, eyeing the brew with equal contempt. "I think I know who did this," he offered.

"Whoever they are, they should be hung by their thumbs until they shriek for mercy," John replied. While his full sarcastic rancor was usually saved for those who stole his parking space or insisted John F. Kennedy was assassinated with a single bullet, this was even more personal. This time, he had a score to settle with someone. He had no doubt whatsoever, whoever they were, they were going down.

"Morning, Cap. Good morning, John." Sarah Zelman walked over to the coffeemaker, watched it carefully then inhaled with a smile. "Almost done. I need caffeine this morning like you have no idea." She picked her mug off the tray of clean ones, looking forward to that first hot sip of cinnamon-infused paradise.

Munch tipped his head back, shot a glance at Cragen who suddenly seemed to be studying the condition of the floor tiles, then looked squarely at Zelman. "You! You did this?" he asked, incredulous. "You, Sarah Rochelle Zelman, took it upon yourself to do my task, wrecking this poor machine by forcing 'flavored' coffee through its delicate filtering system." His tone was shocked, yet demanded her to explain herself – and fast.

She looked at him quizzically. "I made a pot of Cinnabon coffee. So, what's the problem? I was in early, you were running a little bit late… I made coffee. Big deal," she added with an eloquent shrug. "Is this some Greek tragedy I'm unaware of, John?"

"Just because I was fifteen minutes late, it doesn't automatically mean you can corrupt the coffee here." He bristled, not merely at the fact she'd done his job, but also at the implication he breezed in too late to do his morning task. He'd been a little late because it was his turn to bring the bagels and cream cheese.

"I had to do something when someone, who shall remain John Munch, put the can back with less than a teaspoon of coffee in it," she shot back, teasing him.

"See?" Stabler exclaimed triumphantly. "I'm not the only one who's seen that now!"

"Don't help her, Elliot," John warned, his tone darker than the brew dripping through the coffee filter.

Stabler huffed slightly. "Don't worry, John, I'm not. Personally, I hate the 'flavored' crap, especially when it pours out like motor oil." He looked at Zelman, shook his head and debated whether or not he should make a run across the street for coffee.

"Hey! I'm going to drink some of it," she shot back. "You don't hear me whining like a first-grader."

"C'mon, Sarah, the last time you made coffee, it was Vanilla Mist or something – and it came out in solid form," Benson said as she stifled a wry laugh. Granted, it wasn't quite like chunks, but it was powerful in its own right.

"You did that, too? Damn it!" John swore hotly. "I blamed it on the night shift; no wonder they looked at me like I was from another planet." He tossed the morning paper down on his desk, disgusted.

"Bro, you _are_ from another planet. We just haven't figured out which one yet," Fin retorted, allowing himself a laugh at Munch's expense. He considered starting his day with a Coke, despite his desire for a decent cup of coffee.

"What you're saying is, by my touching the coffee maker," Sarah said, "I've violated your civil rights?" She leaned against her desk, folded her arms across her chest and smirked.

"No, it's not merely so simple," Munch said, dramatically pointing to her and then the coffeemaker. "You, Detective Zelman, have personally violated not only my person by brewing that paint thinner you so nonchalantly refer to as 'coffee,' but you have put our esteemed squad-mates in danger as well." He cast a glance at the errant device, which – by John's reckoning – should have refused to work for anyone but him.

"Hey, Sarah!" Fin called out, trying to keep a straight face. "When I walked by the coffee machine, just the smell gave me a contact high." He popped the top on his can of soda and busied himself with taking a long sip.

Olivia felt it her duty to join in the banter once more, since Sarah seemed to take it all in stride. "C'mon, Fin, don't be afraid – pour yourself a few chunks. It's as close as you'll ever get to the goop inside a 'lava lamp.'" She seriously wondered if they could purge the cinnamon coffee and ensuing patisserie smell from the bullpen.

"I resent that! It's not strong enough to be 'chunky,'" Zelman replied, secretly amused. She put on her best deadpan expression and added, "I'd have to run it through once more, if you wanted it to morph to a semi-solid." She was tempted to do exactly that, once no one was looking. Of course, she knew Munch would pop a vein in his brain if she so dared touch the machine again, without his expert guidance.

"Oh, it's 'morphed' alright," Elliot retorted. "Into what, exactly, I'm not sure. It smells like the cinnamon sauce from Goldstein's Ice Cream." He'd taken his family there on more than one occasion. Their cinnamon sauce was spicy like Red Hots, pouring out with the consistency of molten caramel. "Not that I'd want to add ice cream to what you're passing off as coffee," he quickly amended.

Cragen, seated on the edge of Munch's desk, entered the fray. "Zelman, didn't we have the official coffee maker discussion, about three days after you joined this squad?" He knew he'd mentioned she should only make coffee if John was having another of his infamous anthrax flare-ups. Otherwise, usurping Munch's job was tantamount to treason.

"We did talk about it, sure," she began, "but I thought I was doing Munch a favor, since I came in first this morning. She shot John a glance, sure he was reveling in what seemed to her like a hazing.

"Oh, you were, if he needed something to strip chrome off a trailer hitch," Cap said, allowing himself a slight smile. He took another look at the heavily dripping liquid, a sigh escaping him. "If I stick a spoon in that, can you guarantee it won't eat the metal?"

Sarah giggled quietly, having heard almost enough. "Okay, all right… I get the point. Never touch the coffee maker, even when John calls in with something the CDC can't cure." She uncrossed her arms, walked over to the coffee maker and poured herself a cup once the dripping stopped. "Since I've insulted His Royal Highness of Morning Beverages," she said pointedly, looking at John. "Someone needs to clue me in as to who's second-in-command of the coffee around here."

Cragen made a face as he looked at the carafe of cinnamon brew. "I used to be, but now I'm delegating it to you," he replied, his tone making sure she knew it wasn't merely a request. "John, take a moment to hazmat what's been brewed and show Sarah the finer points of making drinkable coffee, will you? That's a direct order, by the way." He slipped off the corner of Munch's desk, heading back to his office in hopes there would be decent coffee – soon.

"You heard Cap," he said, raising his brows as he looked at Sarah. He examined the inky liquid, shaking his head in disbelief. "Think we could get a uniform to surreptitiously dump this into the East River?"

Olivia laughed aloud, secretly delighted John's world had been rocked by something seemingly trivial. "The EPA would be on your ass in less than a second! I'd probably call them myself." She noticed Elliot was studiously working away on a small stack of D-D5s, in a gallant attempt to refrain from further comment.

"You ingrates! This is almost as bad as being hazed at Quantico," Zelman said, laughing. She took a sip of coffee, then chastised them all. "I brew you something to fortify you through an entire day, yet you complain like a bunch of lightweights."

"If we drove taxis for a living, we'd thank you," John assured her. "However, some of us do plan on sleeping at some point this century." He eyed her mug, not having seen she'd already had several sips of the cinnamon-flavored brew. "If you drink that, I'm calling EMS."

"Funny, Munch. You're too late; I've taken a few sips already." She put her mug down on his desk, before she walked over to the coffee maker. "Give me the carafe, so I can dispose of it properly – I'll pour it into a Thermos and take it to the guys in Homicide."

Fin stepped up to ensure they wouldn't be subjected to it, either. "Don't do it, Sarah. Some of us have friends down there, y'know."

She shrugged, a smile still on her face. "No problem. I'll dump it."

Stabler could stand it no more, having to get his digs in one last time. "Hopefully, it won't dissolve plumbing fixtures." He saw Munch was trying valiantly not to laugh.

"Be glad I didn't bring some Hazelnut Happiness or Coconut Cabana, why don't you?"

Munch leaned against his desk, almost ready to read the paper. He couldn't settle into his morning routine until the squad was properly provided for. "If you did, Cragen would offer you up to IAB, for the attempted murder of this squad. You are the Lucretia Borgia of coffee right now," he added emphatically, "at least until you complete your tutelage in the finer points of the SVU's morning brew."

"'Borgia'?" She shot him a glare which would have turned a lesser mortal's blood to ice water. "That's cold, Munch. Especially from someone who drinks tea."

"I drink coffee sometimes. I'm also looking out for my esteemed colleagues, of which you're included," he replied. "Coffee has its own flavor; it doesn't need to be spoiled by artificial enhancements. Go dump that, while I run some water through." He turned the handle of the carafe toward her, to facilitate her taking it away. "Afterward, I'll show you how the squad takes it coffee. Which will, of course, make you the Special Agent-in-Charge of the coffeemaker, should I be unable to fulfill my obligations as Chief Brewmaster." It was a guilty pleasure of his, poking at her FBI background.

"'Special-Agent-in-Charge,' huh? I should tie you to a chair and force some of this into you through a rubber hose." The expression on her face made it clear she would do exactly that, if he kept badgering her about the Bureau.

"The FBI uses rubber hoses, too? I thought those tactics were reserved for the CIA." He looked at her through the top of his Transitions lenses, trying to keep a straight face.

"You haven't begun to see my 'spook' side yet, John," she promised. "I'm dumping this, before you decide my actions were simply the cover for a conspiracy."

"It doesn't qualify as a conspiracy – you acted alone," he shot back pithily, as everyone in the bullpen laughed. He shook his head, secretly wondering if she'd ever live down this day.

Sarah took the carafe of Cinnabon coffee into the ladies room, giving it one last longing look as she poured it neatly down the sink. She rinsed after it, chasing the scent of cinnamon down the drain.

Munch dumped the spicy-scented grounds in the trash, wiping the filter basket with a paper towel before settling another filter into it. He pushed it into the slot above an empty carafe, hit the red button and prayed hot water would excise the demons of Zelman's frivolously-flavored brew.

Once the pot filled with water, he poured some into his mug, inhaling deeply. Gone. The spice was expunged at last. He dropped in an Earl Grey tea bag, then settled his mug on his desk. Sarah came back into the bullpen, the second carafe clean and ready for action.

"Now, observe," Munch began. "One coffee filter, one empty carafe that's been washed, and some Folger's – medium roast, never decaf. You're with me so far?"

"Got it. You really think I'd be so cruel as to ever use decaf?" she asked, punctuated by a short huff.

"Only a heinous individual with a criminal mind would be so heartless, which is why I mentioned it," he quipped.

"Wise ass," she said, giving him a look. "Okay, how much goes into the filter?"

"Patience, Grasshopper… I'm getting to that. Place the filter into the basket, fill it to between one-third and one-half with coffee," he instructed. He reached into the cabinet underneath the coffeemaker, grabbed the familiar red canister and cringed. It was empty, save for a few grinds left in the bottom, mocking him. "Damn, that's right…we're out. Of all the mornings to forget buying coffee."

Cragen again came out of his office, looking hopeful. "John, I'm waiting for progress here and I'm seeing none."

"Almost there, Cap," he answered. "We've run into a slight logistical problem."

"Lucky for everyone, there's a fresh bag of French Roast in my side desk drawer," Sarah offered. "Unless, Cap, you feel it's what John referred to the day before yesterday as 'Feeb food.'" She darted a glance Munch's way, a surreptitious smile in its wake.

"The opinions expressed by Detective Munch do not necessarily reflect the views of 'management,'" Cragen intoned, still holding out hope for his morning caffeine. "The French Roast will be fine, Zelman."

Before she could move to her desk, Fin said, "I'm on it." He grabbed the bag, thinking her workspace already smelled like a coffee shop. He passed it to Sarah, who gave him a grateful smile. She passed it off to John, who would measure out the ground beans by sight.

"Okay, here we go… That's exactly between one-third and one-half." He drilled her with his gaze as she watched him.

"Can we finish this while we're young?" she quipped, softly enough only he could hear.

He huffed, opting not to dignify her barb with a response. "Then, insert basket A into slot B above the coffee pot, hit the red switch and wait for your captain and squad-mates to insist they hate the result you have so carefully – and thanklessly – toiled over.

"I'll take care of the next pot. I can tell you're late for your morning mug of tea."

Once finished, she took a moment to fill the mugs of her supervisor and his squad, before filling her own and returning to her desk.

"Hey, Zelman – you're a quick study. Thanks for the coffee," Elliot said, taking his second sip.

"Stabler, did I just hear you utter a statement of gratitude? For coffee?" Sarah was almost flabbergasted, because everyone seemed to take John's coffee-making for granted. Even she had been guilty of doing it, more than once.

Elliot huffed softly in response, a sly grin on his face. "It's a one-time-only event; enjoy it while you can." He turned back to his paperwork, the smile lasting long enough for her to see.

"The new cop gets a 'thank you,'" John said dryly. "How about the guy who taught her everything she knows?"

Stabler shook his head, grinning before he took another long sip. "I thanked you when you made your first pot of coffee for us," he reminded John. "One 'thank you' per lifetime, since we're nothing but a bunch of 'ingrates.'" He pushed at Olivia's foot beneath their desks, as she laughed at him.

Zelman returned to her desk, opening a small brown bag from Fiven Dime's. She'd stopped by the convenience store before she came into the bullpen, usually opting for the quick trip to a small patisserie, famous for their raspberry-filled bear claws. She tried to keep her expression blank, as she threw a small cellophane-wrapped package to John.

He scrutinized the gift, brightening. It was a pack of Drake's Doodle Dogs, to fulfill his early morning urge for chocolate. "My favorite…you remembered," he said, genuinely grateful. "What's the occasion?"

"Nothing in particular. Just a little sacrifice to the Coffee God." She threw him a secret wink, then returned to her computer to begin the day's work, filled coffee mug in hand.


End file.
